Milady
by CallunaRussell
Summary: Dorcas Meadowes, Martyr of the Order of the Phoenix, killed by Voldemort himself...or was she? Once a spy hidden in the Order, she sheds her skin and her false name after an incomplete prophecy about the hope of the dark side. Thorfinn Rowle knew from the time he was very young that his job would be to guard Hermione, but she never makes it easy on him.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This is my take on the "Hermione is Voldemort's daughter," and "Hermione is secretly a spy for the dark" tropes. A guilty pleasure of mine. I've tried to keep it as reasonable as possible and hope you will give it a chance, even if only for big blonde vikings.**

* * *

The Order meeting took place in one of the safe houses, and Dorcas Meadowes was curled up on a sofa, with her legs tucked underneath her as Albus spoke. He looked particularly perplexed. It was not, after all, every day that the Divination teacher was found in Hogsmeade with her throat slit and a Dark Mark hovering over her corpse. It hadn't been torturous like some Death Eaters, or a single blast of efficient magic, like the Killing Curse. In fact, no magic had been used at all, save for the Mark above the body.

Apparently it had driven fear into the hearts of the other professors at the school, and made the Order think that the Death Eaters might start using muggle methods to become more untraceable in their crimes. That discussion had at least been interesting, but now Albus was debating hiring a new Divination professor or letting the subject lapse. Dorcas really didn't care about Hogwarts hiring policies, she had gone to Beauxbatons, but she pretended to be attentive anyway.

She giggled at a lewd comment from Sirius Black, despite the seriousness of the situation, and then, when it was her turn, she directed their eyes to the chessboard she had laid out. It wasn't a standard game, there were too many pieces, but she wasn't playing the usual game, after all. This was _war_. Using small words so that everyone would understand, she spoke about everything she had heard in the pits of the Prophet, what she had heard skulking about Knockturn Alley, and how it could be used to fight the Death Eaters.

No one noticed Peter Pettigrew's nervousness.

* * *

When Severus Snape answered the summons, he was surprised to find himself in a room with only a few of the oldest and most trusted of the inner circle. Even Lucius Malfoy wasn't present, though Abraxas was. "My Lord," he said, bowing deeply.

"Rise, Severus." Voldemort insisted, giving him one of those charismatic smiles. "Take off your mask and cloak, and have a seat."

Trying to be reassured, Severus did as he was bid, taking an empty seat in the sitting room of the Dark Lord's lavish home. "You called, My Lord?"

"Dumbledore is having some...staffing issues, and his Order may be grooming students within the school." Voldemort said, fingers running along the carvings on his chair. "I need someone inside the school. I need _you_ inside the school." He leaned forward, eyes fixed on the young Potions' Master. "I want you to take the Defence Against the Dark Arts position, teach the young how arbitrary these ideas of light and dark can be."

Severus swallowed. The Dark Lord was often painted as cruel and sadistic, and having seen him at his worst, Severus could not help but agree. There were those other times, however, times like these, when he turned all of his charisma on someone, and you _felt_ special, you felt as though you could truly change the world, you could _matter_. Still, Severus had anything but pleasant memories of Hogwarts. "I'm too young, he'll never consider it." Severus argued. "There are still students who remember how the Marauders tormented me. I'd have no respect."

"Nonsense!" A feminine voice declared beside him, and Severus turned to smile at Portia Dagworth-Granger. Her amber eyes were glittering as she spoke. "You survived through an apprenticeship with the most demanding battleaxe of a Potions Mistress on the continent, and were one of the youngest published in an academic journal about dark potions in a century. You may be young, but they cannot deny your qualifications."

"I'm sure your mother would love to hear you speak of her in such a _flattering_ way, Portia." Severus drawled in amusement. They had met while they had both been apprenticing to Portia's mother, the indomitable Imogen Dagworth-Granger. He had no desire to make friends, merely to finish his apprenticeship, but Portia had other ideas, and there were some tasks in an apprenticeship that bonded apprentices together. She was probably the only true friend he had acquired since Lily. If he didn't still love Lily, he might have had feelings for her. As it was, they were merely best friends. When she had finished her apprenticeship and declared she didn't want to see her mother for at least five years, she had tagged along behind him back to Britain despite his complaints and sarcastic rebuffs. It was when she was accompanying him to some formal Death Eater party that he had introduced her to the Dark Lord, and the rest was history.

Portia waved a hand dismissively, but she was smiling, and her eyes were sparkling. "The old harridan knows what she is, she loves her image. Far be it for me to tarnish it."

"Qualifications aside, I doubt I can get the respect of students who remember _Potter_ dangling me upside-down and commenting on my undergarments." Severus sain, nearly spitting on the name of his enemy.

"If you cannot rule them with respect, let them fear you." Cynric Nott advised.

"You are the only one I can ask to do this, Severus." Voldemort said. "Dumbledore is desperate, and with recent... _issues_ …well, he will undoubtedly have even fewer applicants than normal."

"Ah yes, the Divination professor. That was a surprise. I'd never seen anything quite that style from our comrades." Severus said, curious as anyone about who had done that particular deed or why. While Dumbledore and some of his professors were considered a threat, the old divination professor had never been on that list. The surprise came from exactly where he _wasn't_ looking.

"She spoke out of turn." Portia said coldly, and when Severus glanced over at her, her curls were crackling with magic. "She had to be silenced. She could not finish her prophecy. It could not be allowed to register with the Ministry."

Well, _that_ was a surprise. Unlike most of the Death Eaters recruited in recent years, Portia didn't have a taste for meaningless violence. She wasn't even a blood purist. Her concerns were more about lost knowledge and traditions, adults who had no idea why they were taught with quills, the old rites being replaced with vacations or ignored completely, Runes being an elective instead of a required course, ignorance of magical theory, and magic being solely divided into light and dark, with no concept of it as a primeval force. Power helped too, but her motives were closer to the old Knights of Walpurgis than the modern Death Eaters. Bellatrix had complained long and hard about the Dark Lord favouring someone she saw as too weak to be a killer. What Severus understood in that moment was that she wasn't afraid to kill, she simply needed a situation where it was necessary. "Potions knife?".

"Boline." Portia said, her cool expression breaking with a smile. "I doubt anyone will even be able to identify the wound marks. I thought it a fitting way to send her to kiss death's scythe."

"Undoubtedly." Severus said dryly.

"The work was savage and yet elegant all at once." The Dark Lord said, offering the witch one of those smiles that others would fall over the bodies of their fellows to receive. "I believe that it will make Dumbledore more willing to hire you, Severus."

Severus couldn't help the sour expression on his face. "Certainly there is someone more suited to the task? Portia is an excellent teacher."

"It will only be for a year, Severus." Portia reassured him. "I have...another mission, one that Cynric and Einar will be helping me with."

Severus could tell the Dark Lord was losing his patience in. He preferred to keep Voldemort in the guise of genteel, noble, beneficent leader as much as possible. The other option was...terrifying. "If these are your orders, My Lord, of course I will obey." He said, as humbly as possible.

"If this assignment displeases you so much, you may aid me with another, that will perhaps be more to your taste." Voldemort said, darkness tingeing his voice.

Severus knew he had pressed his luck too much about the unpalatable teaching position. "Whatever you desire, My Lord."

Voldemort smiled a vicious smile. "It's time for Meadowes to die. They think we don't know she exists. It's time to show them we know more than they think we do."

Severus nodded. "Do you want me to arrange such a brew or…?"

"No." Voldemort interrupted, cutting him off. "It will be my wand. You will simply ensure the body gets identified by the Order afterwards."

"Yes, my Lord."

Severus watched from an alley as the four Death Eaters dragged the body to the door of the two Marauders. It was a good choice, these four, as they loudly grumbled about the job, clumsily setting off wards as they disapparated.

The door opened only a moment later, and there was a gasp. "Moony!" Sirius yelled. "Floo Dumbledore! It's Dorcas!" Severus watched as he leaned down, checking for a pulse, for any sign of life, and then gathered the body into his arms. He made a noise and then reached for the note on the body, before letting out a noise of grief mingled with rage. The werewolf appeared in the doorway, placing a hand on Sirius's shoulder. "What's it say?"

" _He_ did it." Sirius raged. "It says: "I do not appreciate meddling in my plans." He was shaking. "He killed her."

"We'll get him, Sirius." The werewolf reassured him. "He'll pay."

Severus scoffed quietly, before disappearing further into the alley, and masking the area with a silencing charm, before apparating away. Dorcas Meadowes was dead.

* * *

Lord Voldemort looked around the drawing room at Nott Manor, eyeing the four assembled Death Eaters. "You understand how important this mission is?" He spoke quietly, but he held the room in silence. "This is one of the most important missions I can give you. It will cement my future, our future, the future of the wizarding world."

"Yes. My Lord." all four intoned.

"It is finished, Cynric?" He asked, looking to one of his oldest friends.

"Finished and tested. It is safe, as demanded." Cynric Nott agreed, holding out the time turner.

Voldemort took it from him, and placed it around Portia's neck. "Einar, you and your son will be the guard. No matter what comes. Is that understood?"

Einar Rowle nodded his great blonde head, towering above everyone else in the room, standing beside his cousin. "All the strength of the Rowles will be behind it, My Lord."

"Abraxas, your wife will play her part?"

"Asenath is glad to serve, My Lord." Abraxas agreed. "All care will be taken."

"Good." Lord Voldemort replied. "Go to your places."

The three men disapparated, leaving the Dark Lord alone with Portia. "If you change your mind, send word with Cynric, and I will have Severus brew."

Portia rolled her eyes at the most powerful Dark Lord in a century. "I'll need _something_ to do with my time, since I won't have to keep making Polyjuice with Dorcas out of the picture. I just wish I could have gotten you something more useful." Her spy work as Dorcas had gleaned less than she would have liked.

"This mission is more important." Voldemort said firmly. "This is the greatest gift you can provide me, Portia."

Portia's face exploded into a smile at that. She didn't dare tell him how sweet she found it, ducking her head to hide her happiness.

"Stay safe." Lord Voldemort directed. "Cynric has the largest library of any of my Death Eaters, and his wife is about your age and pleasant enough, but should you need anything…"

"You know when I'll need you." Portia said simply. "You've already done it."

"Then it is time for you to go." He said, before leaning down and slanting his lips over hers.

Portia kissed him back for a long moment, and then stepped back and began to turn to time-turner. "Be safe." She bid him, and disappeared.


	2. Chapter 2

Cynric was less than surprised when the witch appeared in his office out of nowhere. The letter from himself had been quite clear as to what was going to happen, while directing him to start his research on true time turners. He stood immediately. "Milady." He said, with a deep bow. "Welcome to 1978."

"No formalities, Cynric." Portia said, waving him off as her stomach roiled. "I'm not your lady. I'm Marked, same as you. I'm Portia Dagworth-Granger. You may call me Portia."

Cynric blinked, automatically comparing this behaviour to what he had expected, or even what Bellatrix would be doing if she had been 'blessed,' in such a way. "As you wish...Portia."

Portia smiled at him. "It's not about me, Cynric. It's all about the child. Trust me, you'll want to be hex me after about a month."

Cynric laughed despite himself. "I doubt that."

"You've never tried to pull me away from my lab or a book, yet." Portia shot back. "You'll be surprised."

"Bloody arsehole dark lords." A heavily pregnant Portia growled as she stalked through Nott Manor, entirely annoyed with everything. "Stupid Solstice fertility. Me and my sodding 'it's the longest night of the year, shouldn't we celebrate in the traditional ways'. I'm a bloody idiot!"

"No, you're not." Sigrid Rowle argued, rolling her eyes. "Men are the seductive idiots."

"I look like a whale." Portia wailed, despite herself. "I couldn't lean over my potion's bench to properly prepare ingredients today!"

"You're carrying beautifully, and the baby is healthy." Aseneth Malfoy argued, firmly.

"And ten points to Beauxbatons for hexing Abraxas into a peacock." Carlotta Nott agreed. "Cynric could hardly counter it for laughing."

"Once we found him, in the flock, anyway." Aseneth drawled, taking a drink of her water.

Portia slumped into one of the expensive antique loveseats. "I just want her to be born already. I miss my life."

"You miss the Dark Lord." Aseneth argued, wisely. "You know, you could have Cynric approach him early. It might be better than surprising him."

"Maybe." Portia said mulishly. "But I'm not exactly the fashion plate I was when I first met him, either."

"He won't care." Carlotta pointed out. "The legacy, the dynasty, the line - men care about that far more than what colour robes you wear."

Portia groaned into a throw pillow, and promptly threw it at Sigrid when she laughed.

* * *

"You _what_?" Voldemort hissed, the mien of the charismatic aristocrat falling as he looked at one of his oldest friends.

"It was by your orders, my Lord. It bore your handwriting, and an enchantment to burn the mark. It could not have come from anyone else, and my note to myself bore information no-one else knew." Cynric insisted.

"You're saying...I have a child, in the future." Voldemort growled.

"You have the beginnings of a dynasty, My Lord, a loyal, intelligent witch, a Potions Mistress in her own right, pregnant with your child, conceived on the longest night of the year. A continuation of the Slytherin line," Cynric explained. "The child is seen as such a threat, a partial prophecy was given, and so you sought to hide them here, away from Dumbledore and his Order to disguise the birth."

Voldemort considered this, attracted as always to rumours of power and intelligence, he gave in, just slightly. "I would meet with her, Cynric."

"Of course, My Lord." Cynric agreed. "My home is, as always, open to you. I believe she is with my father in the library." He waved his hand open in a welcoming gesture.

"Thank you, Cynric," Voldemort said with a nod, and disapparated. He knew the layout of Nott Manor well, and Apparated a few rooms away from the library, disillusioning himself before approaching the room in question. A silence dampening spell and a careful opening of the door, and he was sliding into the library none the wiser, wanting to observe this witch without her knowledge.

She was gesturing, surrounded by several floating books, her hair a nimbus around her head and crackling with magic. "I'm not trying to dismiss the importance of astronomy, Edward, only saying that with the right applications of a proper arithmancy web and appropriate bindrunes, one can simulate the proper environment and brew potions that are usually limited by astronomical timings without loss of power!"

"And I'm saying that even under the hands of a master, such potions would have fluctuations in efficacy, because they would not have the proper celestial energies imbued into them during the process, and only derivations of that power." Edward Nott argued back. The eighty-year-old wizard's eyes were shifting toward her citations. "If you read your Dee, you'd see that alignments are necessary to the true expression of power, as in the Monas."

"But if you look at Agrippa, you can _clearly_ see that the celestial energies are always present, you merely need the power and the right calculations to direct them, regardless of time and relative phase or position!" Portia shot back.

"Perhaps the answer is that many lack the ability, the knowledge, or the will to do so." Voldemort commented, releasing the disillusionment. "Or they have no idea it is possible. It is certainly not taught at Hogwarts, even at N.E.W.T. level."

"This is why Beauxbatons tests early and allows you to specialise before you graduate." Portia grumbled, moving towards him out of habit, before stopping and seeming to realise what had happened. "My Lord." She said politely, unsure of her welcome, when this Voldemort had never met her.

"Mistress Dagworth-Granger, I presume?" Voldemort replied, making no secret of studying her.

"Portia, please." The witch in question said with a little smile at the repeat of their first meeting, something she now suspected he did on purpose. "I shall start looking for my mother, otherwise, and would flee in terror."

Voldemort gave her the charming smile, the one that spoke of an aristocrat with hidden depths and reached for her hand. "Portia, then, though I confess you have me at a disadvantage, you know far more of me than I do of you."

Portia smiled at that. "I would like to remedy that." Did he love her? She didn't know. He certainly didn't in this time, but in her own? Perhaps. Could anyone ever be truly sure their partner loved them without abusing legilimency? Love was a mystery no one understood, least of all her. People said those who practised dark arts were incapable of love, and yet she did, and for now, that was enough.

* * *

Cynric Nott had never been one to walk on eggshells in his own house, but he had suddenly learned the skill. He had thought his mother a terror when she was pregnant, but she had nothing on Portia. The witch lost her temper or became upset and priceless antiques started smashing.

That, of course, was nothing compared to suddenly becoming afraid of coming across the Dark Lord at the wrong time. Since Voldemort had met Portia, again and for the first time all at once, he had started treating Cynric's house as an extension of his own, and Nott never knew which scene he would come across.

Voldemort and Portia, curled up in the library, passionately discussing some obscure magical fact or some theory of spell construction, or the Dark Lord concerned for the future of his dynasty, placing stronger detection charms on every dish, pot, pan, and utensil in the kitchen, or the Dark Lord, paranoid and disillusioned, watching the witch, trying to make sure that it was not all a trick meant to get close to him and destroy him.

That last one usually saw Cynric hexed for allowing the witch in his home and close to the Dark Lord. It was exhausting. He'd be glad when it was over.

* * *

Portia let out a long breath as Sigrid wiped her brow. "I think I know why my mother is such a harpy now."

Aseneth Malfoy chuckled, raising an eyebrow. "Do you want that potion _now_?"

"No!" Portia sputtered. "I've a bloody parchment strapped to one leg, I'm wearing a snakeskin as a girdle, and my knife is under the mattress, I'm doing this the old way, with all the old magic!"

"You allowed the other charm. It's only been around, what, a century?" Sigrid pointed out.

"Would _you_ want the Dark Lord in the room while you shat the bed?" Portia demanded, her voice cutting off into a shrill noise of distress as another contraction rocked her.

Sigrid shuddered without answering. She was too nervous to admit that the Dark Lord frightened her. She wouldn't want him near her bed. She had no idea how Portia did it. He was charming and charismatic, of course, but there was something unnerving underneath. Luckily, Portia was distracted from the lack of answer by the doors banging open and the arrival of the terrifying dark wizard.

Even after, when she had turned her head away from the sight of Portia holding the newborn and handing it to him, Sigrid couldn't help but wonder how the witch did it. She was stronger than Sigrid, and that made Sigrid very glad the woman was on their side.

"The naming is yours, My Lord." Portia said respectfully. She didn't usually refer to him as her lord in private, but in this, with others around, she did. That, and she didn't exactly have the right to call him her lord husband, as was traditional. This was a good compromise.

"Hermione Jean." Voldemort declared. "Hermione for the Spartan princess, and following the Dagworth-Granger traditions, and Jean for someone I once knew."

Portia bit back on her curiosity, and nodded. "As you say, I affirm."

Voldemort took out his wand and drew a drop of blood from his thumb, pressing it to the infant's chest. "I recognise you, Hermione Jean, and bind your magic to my line. You are, now and forever, my firstborn, legitimate and whole."

The baby grizzled slightly, and other father might have smiled, but this was Voldemort, and he handed the baby back to Portia.

Portia smiled in return. "I had them save the cord blood and placenta, should you ever need it, My Lord."

Voldemort raised a brow at her. "Many gifts you have given me, this day, Portia, many gifts, indeed."

* * *

Einar Rowle carried his son on his shoulders into the nursery at the Nott's home. "I'm going to introduce you to someone very important, Tófi."

Thorfinn Rowle nodded his very blonde head seriously. "Yes, Pappa." He sat up a little straighter, as if one could be dignified riding on someone's shoulders. There was no one in the room, though, and he looked around in confusion. "Where?"

Einar chuckled, and walked the boy over to the cot that had been borrowed from his wife for the Dark Lord's child. "This is Hermione, Tófi."

Thorfinn scrunched up his nose. "Baby." He declared dismissively, then noticed the cot in which the child laid. "My cot!" He demanded angrily. "Not baby's!"

"Hush, Thorfinn." Einar rumbled sternly. "You are too old for the cot, and this is Hermione. You and I are going to guard her and make sure she stays safe, do you understand?"

The three-year-old was not well pleased. "Why?"

"Honour, son." Einar said, very seriously. "She is our lord's daughter. This is our job. Do you understand?"

Thorfinn grumbled, but hung off of his father's neck one handed for a moment, to touch the baby's cheek. "We keep you safe, baby."


End file.
